Camouflage
by HowNowWit
Summary: A story of happenstance with a little nudge from fate. AU. Rizzles. Three-shot.
1. Chapter 1

Camouflage

The moment you hear the word _bachelorette_ you know the evening is hopeless. She is more colleague than friend, but you never were adept at refusals, especially when persistence mixes with that particular lilt of _please?_ and you always stare at the phone afterwards wondering how it happened again.

 _Party_ is the furthest thing from your middle name. So when the night arrives, you hunker down in your dim bar corner and grip the stem of your wineglass like a soldier arming for battle. Camouflage is much more your style. You can blend and pass like the best of chameleons. Unwanted eyes overlook you. So though you squirm on the inside and stand on the outskirts of dancing bodies and laughing circles, on the outside you smile, you mingle. You can manage that much without losing too much of yourself in the process.

It's a balance you perfected from a young age. A necessity for survival. And if your eyes stray towards the clock more often than they should between sips of sweet moscato, there is no one amongst the press of drunken bodies who will call you on it.

During one such glance, you meet the eyes of an intriguing woman across the room. The abrupt connection is jarring at first and you hurry to look elsewhere. You don't know her name, but for some reason you find your gaze gravitating towards her. Perhaps because of that unnamed law of physics that demands hyperawareness anytime you accidentally meet someone's eyes in a crowded room. Maybe it's the wildness of her dark curls. Or maybe it's the slope of her neck and the slant of her jaw, the way her lips twitch with an almost smile the second time you catch her looking and a small jolt ricochets through your organs in a not-entirely-unpleasant way.

Maybe it's a touch of fate giving you a subtle nudge.

You discover through various routes of inquiry that she's the best friend of the bride-to-be's cousin, and she lives nearby. Gossip and alcohol are directly proportional, and more information comes without your coaxing: she's an officer of the law.

You raise an eyebrow. A noble profession. Dangerous. You are impressed, and your lips curl against the rim of your glass as you take another sip. The fruity taste blooms along your tongue, and you close your eyes to savor the scent.

During a toast, your head thrown back laughing at whatever obnoxious innuendo someone just shouted, you feel something brush your arm. Your head lowers, and you're eye to eye once more with the mysterious woman. Close enough to notice details like eyelash length and a tiny white scar.

Her eyes are brown.

She's smiling.

Fate's _nudge_ is turning into a shove. You wonder who will catch you if you stumble.

She tells you her name. _Jane_. You manage a full sentence without stuttering or falling into suffocating silence.

You talk.

Her low voice is gravel on a rainy day—smooth and rough at the same time. It surprises you. Defies physics and injects your veins with a warmth that builds as it spreads. The same way her breath does when it hits your ear as you lean closer to hear above the noise.

You laugh.

Her laugh crinkles the corners of eyes lined with dark lashes and turns deep brown into warm caramel. She runs a hand through messy curls occasionally, brushing them back from angular features. The zipper on the sleeve of her leather jacket swings with the movement, catching your eye every time.

"What do you do, Maura?"

Her expression is open and interested, belying her causal posture as she sits across the booth from you. It's distracting, and you take focused breaths to steady your heartbeat. You trace your finger along the rim of your glass, toying with a small smudge of lipstick marring the clear finish.

"I'm an orthopedic surgeon."

Her features register surprise. "Local?"

She rests her weight on her forearms, leaning forward. It distracts you—unnerves and excites you—this genuine interest so rapt that seems to urge her physically closer.

"Yes."

You convince yourself you imagine the pleasure in her eyes.

Despite the unusual allure of this stranger, she is still that: a stranger. And you hesitate. Caution is a lesson you have learned too often in the past.

You redirect. "What about you?"

Her eyes flicker, and you catch the beginnings of an involuntary smile. "A cop. Just another uniform." She shrugs as though it is nothing. Maybe to her it is.

But for many people, you know it is _everything_.

You are intrigued.

"Maura!"

The call draws your eyes up and away, reluctant. Stacy, the bride, emerges from the crowd, waving a hand in the air. Her short veil hangs askew, dangling off one side of her flushed face. You're familiar with the inebriated side of your colleague, and while she is one of the brightest pediatric oncologists in Massachusetts, you do not care to share her company when playfulness acquires a new definition.

"Come meet Jake!" She points to an ambiguous spot behind her.

You don't bother with a response.

Jane sits back. Her eyes turn apologetic as they drop, her smile rueful. "Forgive me. I'm monopolizing you're time."

You shake your head, hand reaching out but falling short of her wrist where it rests on the table. "Not at all. It's a pleasure." Her eyes meet yours once more, and you curl your fingers in, feeling exposed. "An unexpected one."

Your admission is quiet, and you're unsure she heard until a dark eyebrow rises in question. You find yourself telling truths normally reserved for close friends or your pet tortoise at home.

"I didn't expect to enjoy myself tonight."

She stills at your words. Her eyes trace your features in a slow sweep, as though searching, reevaluating. Memorizing. You don't know what she sees, but her face softens into an unguarded emotion that tugs at something inside you.

"Me either," she murmurs, and you read the words more than hear them.

After that, you forget the meaning of camouflage.

The tightness in your chest and limbs is long forgotten, and since when did you end up sitting in the booth beside her, knee gripped around the bend of your elbow, and it's already midnight? Because the bride-to-be has risen, and so has everyone else. You blink, unsure in your sudden disappointment and disorientation. But there is a hand on your wrist, there then gone. A touch far too feather-light to ignite your nerves so.

Whoever said brown eyes are ordinary has never seen hope colored in cinnamon.

She smiles again, and you hear _phone_ and _later_ and _talk_ and before you know it you're gripping the hard casing of your cell, screen still alight with entered information, and your sappy mind can't help but think how the mirroring glow inside you feels like liquid courage and ecstasy mixed into a heady concoction more potent than any cocktail.

You're swept into the tide of exiting bar-goers. Jane's fingers find your elbow amidst all the shuffling, a gentle tether that tugs on more than just your arm. The clack of your heels changes cadence when you step onto wet concrete and take your first breath of night air devoid of stale alcohol and unwashed bodies.

Jane turns to face you, breath pluming white in the space between you as she tucks her hands into her pockets.

She shuffles her feet. You clasp your hands at your waist.

After a short silence, you're bid adieu, a brief goodbye—no, not goodbye:

"See you later."

There's a question in that statement. A request, edged with hope. You can tell. And it is this, more than anything, that leaves you breathless in the growing chill of midnight darkness.

It's a good thing you never refilled that last glass of wine, because you want to remember that look in brown eyes as she turns, that half-smile that melts the glow from your middle into a steady burn.

You stand in the misty drizzle on a wet sidewalk, breath deep and even on a chilly night, and watch her retreating form. You turn your face to the sky, feel the wet smoothness of rain, and smile.

You are not one for dramatics, but you feel reborn beneath the heaven's relentless benediction.

* * *

A/N: Part one of two or three. Strongly influenced and inspired by Rose. Thanks for letting me grab this and run. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Camouflage

Chapter Two

You detour into a small alcove, secluded at the end of a hallway. Leaning against the wall, you close your eyes and breathe, allowing the cadence to distance your mind from scalpels, saws, and clamps. Willing tense muscles to loosen their tight hold.

You rub a hand down your face, dislodging the surgical mask to hang haphazardly around your neck. Cooler air comes in slow, welcome breaths, and with each inhale the scent of fragile mortality recedes. Flexing your fingers, you roll your neck and focus on the tangible pull of stiff muscles. The return to yourself is always disconcerting—you've come to expect it.

A squeaky wheel heralds the approach of a nurse making her rounds. It jars you from the balm of your private bubble, and your shoulders straighten on instinct.

Camouflage.

You meet her eyes when she appears, conjuring a smile despite your exhaustion. She returns it with a nod of acknowledgement, passing on.

You pull the phone out of the back pocket of your wrinkled scrubs and thumb the screen. _Ah_. Your mouth twitches, wanting to smile. You thought you sensed the sun's light, faint though it was. A brief glance around orients you and you stride with purpose.

You round a corner and are met with glass windows and a panorama of the morning's birth, splayed messily across the sky in pinks and oranges and yellows. Bracing your forearm against a dividing beam, you force blood and bone and sinew aside and soak the quiet beauty of the day into your soul.

It's one of the many small things you demand of yourself amidst the hectic and sometimes shocking realities of your work. This refusal to become numb, to stop seeing. You swore it to yourself years ago, a private oath alongside the Hippocratic:

When sunrises cease to move you, you must mend what is broken within. Without that, you have no business mending others.

A sigh escapes you. It's been a long twelve hours.

But the satisfying weariness in your bones offsets the strain in your heart. A frown crosses your face, palm gripping your phone tighter. _Well, almost…_ You shake your head and force the thought aside.

Another job done. Another person healed. As best as can be, with modern medicine and human hands.

One more deep breath, and you're prepared to visit your patient in recovery.

ICU is a blend of beeps and shuffling footsteps, coughs and rustling fabric. A low hum of constant activity. Never quiet, the product of pain and vigilant monitoring.

You find the curtained space that holds your patient and smile at his assigned nurse, Kathy, sitting at the nurse's station. She informs you he came out of anesthesia thirty minutes ago and has been complaining of pain. Thirteen on a scale of one to ten. A moan behind the curtain emphasizes her last words, and she gives you a half-shrug, gazing at you above her glasses.

"We were going to page you, Dr. Isles."

She hesitates as though she wants to say more, but settles for a nod. You thank her for the information and try to roll the weight of weariness from your shoulders as you pull the curtain aside.

You're met with brown eyes and a familiar lanky frame. It stops you short—the rush of blood to your ears, the confusing clash of professional with private that leaves you floundering.

Your mouth gets ahead of your brain. "Jane?"

She appears just as surprised as you when she turns, hands on hips, and you notice torn pants and bloodstained sleeves, scrapes and a messy ponytail. "Maura?"

Her voice is exactly as you remember, if not further roughened from use. The sound of your name in that voice pulls a strange sensation along your skin, a mixture of static and goosebumps that leaves you unbalanced. She should not be this intoxicating.

You don't even know her last name.

Her arms fall to her sides as you stare at one another. The meeting of gazes lasts only a moment, but it feels longer in the slight stretch of space between you. After such a brief encounter the previous Saturday, you should not recognize the small twitch of her fingers as a restrained desire to run a hand through messy curls now pulled into a falling ponytail.

Nor should you wonder what it would feel like to—

"Doc?" The word is slurred into more vowels than consonants, but it grabs your attention, and you slip back into the easy rhythm of care. You try not to focus on the voice in your head, telling you that for the first time in your career, the patient was not your first priority.

"Mr. Hughes," you greet, turning to him with a smile.

You go through the motions, effortless with practice. Questions, information. You note his respiration rate and mentally calculate a ten percent increase in his Dilaudid dose. Borrowing the nurse's computer, you enter it into his chart, trying to ignore the scuff of boots on hard linoleum and the heat of curious brown eyes along the side of your face.

Once your duties are taken care of, you turn to her, questions in your eyes, eagerness in the thump of your heart. You try to contain the latter, but your smile refuses to dim.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

If you were expecting enthusiasm, the guarded politeness in familiar brown eyes is a gentle rebuff. It makes the swell in your chest falter, causes your spine to straighten.

Jane's gaze rests on the patient as she gathers her thoughts. "We had an…altercation." Her tongue hesitates over the words, indecisive. "While trying to apprehend the suspect, he resisted arrest and fled into oncoming traffic."

Succinct and professional. Worthy of report to a superior officer. You narrow your eyes, tilt your head.

This answers two of your questions, and plants a few more. There are not many things that can shatter a femur. This you knew.

You glance at Mr. Hughes. He is not lucid enough to acknowledge the conversation.

"I didn't realize he was a suspected criminal." You keep your voice low, as though respectful of the dead. Or aware of prying ears.

She must hear the question in your voice, see it in your eyes. How your body leans forward to step closer yet resists the pull because of guarded expressions and closed shoulders.

She blinks at you for a moment, and it occurs to you that she looks tired. Slumped posture, darker circles beneath dark eyes. Stiff motions, indicative of pain and exhaustion as new dance partners. But something is still there, because she glances around before speaking, leaning in, and you know you are privy to confidential information.

"At the least, he's got resisting arrest and assaulting an officer. The most?" Her jaw clenches, a small tell, tightening the muscle along her temple. "Four counts of murder."

The knowledge is a shock to your system. Your hands shake briefly with the memory of slick blood, elastic tendons, and hard metal. Wrenching. It is better you didn't know this beforehand.

"He will recover," you hear yourself saying.

You pride yourself on treating all patients equally, but…

"With physical therapy, of course."

Jane nods, face grim.

You close your eyes. It is better you didn't know.

With a shake of your head, you banish the unease. What's done is done, and right now you have Jane, who is gazing at you across the makeshift room with an expression you can't decipher. Were you one to guess, you would say she can't either.

After several minutes sharing silence and eye contact, you break the ridiculous barrier of tension and approach. She doesn't pull away. Rather, she watches you with a mixture of cautious curiosity and amusement that somehow draws your eyes to the loose strands of dark curls framing her face.

"You're injured." A statement of the obvious, yes, but you mean more than the words themselves. For some reason, you just can't dislodge the coat of formality weighing your tongue.

Jane shrugs, the action shifting rolled-up sleeves and drawing your attention. "It's fine. I can get one of the nurses to—"

You grab her wrist with careful fingers, and she goes silent. A three-inch long laceration spans her forearm, still oozing. It explains the bloodstains. Donning gloves, you prod the margins, note clean borders.

"He may have had a knife." The sarcastic tone draws your eyes up, and you're greeted with her first smile of the day.

The imagery your mind provides—combined with her flippant comment—does not allow you to return it.

"I got my tetanus. Relax." She raises her other hand in a gesture meant to placate.

It doesn't work. You straighten, and it only draws attention to the obvious height difference. Your nose even with her chin. It irks you. Something in her distancing stance, the amusement hiding at the corner of upturned lips, burns along the back of your neck, sharp and uncomfortable. It prods that nerve, so sensitive to teasing ridicule, that you thought long buried. Your next words fall just shy of curt.

"While I specialize in surgery, I _did_ go to medical school."

Her brow wrinkles, eyes flickering between your own, as you release her forearm.

"This needs stitches." It is the tone that earned you the moniker _Queen of the Dead_ during your pathology rotation.

She is either too confused or too intelligent to argue. You pull her out of the curtained room and into an adjacent unoccupied one, ignoring the unexpected flex of muscle beneath your fingers.

"Nurse?" You catch Kathy's eye again. "I need a nylon suture kit, local anesthetic, and saline for irrigation, please."

The illusion of privacy at Kathy's departure makes you aware of Jane's proximity. Dirt smudges much of her outfit and patches of exposed olive skin. You resent the urge to draw closer that wells in your chest. _Unrequited_ is not an emotion you allow, and you avoid her gaze as you gather necessary materials. When she shifts from one foot to another, the scent of perspiration meets your nose, that and an underlying fragrance of… Your movements still.

What is that? You inhale again. Lavender?

"I can just stop by the ER on the way out." Her voice is low, but it still startles you from your distraction. Her attempted nonchalance fails to hide the uncertainty, the question behind her words.

She doesn't want to be a bother. The realization softens the edges of your pique so your words no longer aim to slice.

"You're not waiting three hours to have a laceration closed."

She leans a hip against the empty bed and appears relieved when you finally meet her gaze once more, a white flag across no-man's-land. The connection pulses along your skin, and you glimpse an answering emotion in the subtle shift of facial muscles and the way her hand grips the railing on the bed.

The glow is back, much as you try to suppress it.

You smile despite yourself. "Besides. My sewing skills are superior to any ER physician's."

Her lips twitch, the action warming the dark brown of her eyes. "You're confident." It sounds like a challenge, more playful than serious.

Your eyebrow rises. "Realistic," is your parry. You lower the side railing on the bed and pat the cushion. "Hop up."

Her movements are stiff, though she tries to hide it, and you catalogue potential bumps and bruises for future inquiry as she edges onto the cushion. Her long legs dangle over the side.

Kathy arrives and departs without incident, and the quiet that descends as you work is less hostile and more relaxed. Irrigation, anesthetic, forceps and thread. The familiarity brings with it a return to equilibrium. There is only you, a wound, and Jane. The shared softness of your breathing, the patterned process of healing. As you dip the first pass of the needle into an unflinching arm, a bold confidence settles the unrest twisting in your torso.

You're just sliding the third suture into place when you dare to voice the question that has been teasing the tip of your tongue ever since brown eyes met yours.

"Is there a reason you attempt to rebuff any offer of help?" A quick tug secures the stitch, and you continue the rise, pull, and dip with another loop. "Or is it just an aversion to spending further time with me?"

There is no venom in the words. Only blunt curiosity.

Jane's other hand twitches in your periphery. A slender wrist flexes, and you imagine her gripping the thin sheet of the bed as she lets out a breath.

"I thought…." Her voice is quiet. It catches at something in your chest. She picks at a nail, not meeting your eyes. "You didn't call, and—"

Oh.

Your hands stall.

 _Oh_.

Your words trip over themselves in your haste to correct the misunderstanding. "A colleague's wife went into early labor and had to take maternity leave due to complications. I volunteered to fill in until he returns or a replacement is found."

"Ah." You can discern nothing from the single vowel, or the expression on Jane's face, so you return to your sutures.

"Working nights and doubles is not conducive to having a social life." The comment is more for yourself than Jane, but she chuckles. The sound is open and free. It warms your limbs and the tips of your ears.

"You're telling me." Her tone is emphatic with camaraderie and makes you smile. She pauses, then, "That explains the circles."

You glance up at her in confusion, and she raises her other hand to touch fingertips to your temple, a gentle graze that trails across the curve of your cheek, beneath the dip of your eye, and onto the rise of your nose.

Oh. Periorbital circles.

The touch is light, barely there. You don't shy away, and her hand is slow to withdraw as she rests it in her lap. Swallowing, you try not to assign more meaning to the gesture than there is, even as her eyes seem to convey… _more_ as they hold yours.

You're suddenly aware of your wrinkled scrubs, the tangle of hair beneath your surgery cap, your lack of make-up. But the understanding in Jane's gaze soothes the brief surge of self-consciousness.

Here is a woman who is familiar with sleep deprivation and the harsh demands of a chosen career.

You pull away from the intense connection and return to work. One final knot, and you clip the thread. "All done." You discard the rest and remove your gloves to survey your handiwork. "It may scar," you warn.

Jane rolls her shoulders, the motion easy and light. "One more to add to the rest." It's not a reaction you're accustomed to, and it piques your interest while also planting a seed of concern deep in your stomach. You wonder where else on her body bears the marks of everyday bravery.

Flexing her fingers, she follows you with her eyes as you clean up, and there is something new yet tentative in her gaze that sends heat to your face and a tremor to your hands.

At last you come to a stop before her, because there is nothing else to distract you and delay the inevitable. Still, you try.

"Why do I have the feeling you're familiar with hospitals?"

She gives you a half-smile in answer that reveals dimples. The silent staring continues, unashamed.

"Did you hit your head?" It's a genuine question, even if you also desire to regain some control of your mental faculties.

She pauses in thought, blinking. Her brow furrows. "I…I'm not sure."

Despite your distraction, you're still a professional. Covering your bases. Your thoughts stutter and you silently chastise yourself. _Bad metaphor_.

You gesture for her to remove her hair tie and she obliges. You start at her hairline and work backwards through dark curls, fingertips probing with careful efficiency along her scalp.

"So, _detective_. I seem to recall you telling me you were just another uniform."

The badge at Jane's hip had not gone unnoticed. Nor had her lack of uniform. Untruths are not something you appreciate.

Jane has the decency to look contrite. "Sorry. The shield tends to intimidate people. And then I have to explain the department."

Your hands continue their path. The muscles of her shoulders twitch when you hit a particular spot behind her left ear. You backtrack. Another twitch, this one stronger. "Tender?"

She clears her throat carefully. "…No."

Something in her voice makes you flush and you move on.

"What department?" you inquire to get back on track.

"Homicide."

Your eyes meet hers. "Oh."

There's that half-smile again, this time combined with the sight of dark cinnamon beneath darker lashes. "Yeah. _Oh_."

This should _not_ affect you so. You wrestle the tangle of emotions into order and continue your examination. _No swelling or lacerations evident from physical exam._ _Concussion unlikely_. Even after all this time, you still recite HPI and exam findings in your head. The mindset of resident-answering-to-attending never quite fades.

"I'll live?" she asks as you pull away, a mischief in her eyes that you can't help but answer with some of your own.

"It seems that way."

"What made you decide to become a surgeon, Maura?" The question is quick, and it makes you wonder if she is as reluctant as you to end this impromptu meeting.

You chuckle and smooth the hem of your scrub top, unashamed to admit the truth. "My bedside manner lacks certain…elements that allow both patients and myself to be comfortable."

Jane tilts her head, hands wrapping around the edge of the cot as she leans forward. "Seem to be doing fine to me."

The simple honesty in her words and the way her eyes trace your face leave you momentarily speechless. You become aware of how you are standing between her knees, the inviting tilt of her chin as she looks up at you, how easy it would be to lean forward and—

"There are…exceptions," you allow.

"Very many?" Her eyes dip down to your lips, just once, but the jolt it sends through your system is both delicious and frightening in its intensity.

"No."

She smiles, and you resist the urge to reach out and bush a wayward curl behind her ear. There are working professionals and sick patients passing just on the other side of that thin curtain of a wall, and now is neither the time nor place for the thoughts running through your mind.

Yet you remain where you are, wrapped in this small bubble of togetherness, reluctant to leave.

Her eyes dip once more, lingering this time, and before you know it you are leaning in and Jane's eyes are closing—

The loud bleep of your pager startles you both. Stepping back, you yank the device from the waist of your pants and silence the alarm. The number is one you recognize and you sigh in mingled annoyance and defeat.

"I have to go," you announce. Your next surgery is scheduled in an hour and you have pre-op to do.

Jane nods and slides from the bed, hands disappearing into her pockets as she watches the floor, then glances at you.

"Thanks. For stitching me up."

"My pleasure." Belatedly, you think it an odd response to such a statement, but Jane only nods, her next question earnest, as though afraid she'll lose you the moment you cross the threshold of the curtain. "Are you going to the wedding?"

It takes you a moment to orient the question. "Yes," you assure, already backing away. "Yes, I'll be there."

It feels like so much more than a promise, and the ache in your abdomen lessens at the reminder of the coming Saturday. Your last sight is the quirk of Jane's lips and her small parting wave as you round the corner.

Before the maze of the hospital tugs you into its grasp once more, you pull out your phone and type a quick message.

 _Those stitches need to be removed in a week_.

The reply is almost instantaneous:

 _It's a date._

* * *

A/N: I did more research for this chapter than I should have. Coincidentally, I utilized a Boston University SOM website to clear up a few details. I thought it apropos.

To the guest who questioned "what Rose?": this story was inspired (rather unintentionally, I might add) by a wonderful writer whose alias on here is Permanent Rose. I suggest you check out some of her stories.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I know it's been forever. Here's the ending. Or beginning, depending upon your perspective.

* * *

Camouflage

Chapter Three

Let it never be said that you lack courage. Toasts and handshakes and wandering eyes—you bear it all with grace and a smile. But there is only so much social nodding you can endure before your butterfly costume reverts to its true caterpillar form at heart.

You find relief at last during the reception, guests too occupied with acquiring cake and champagne to notice a woman seated at a secluded table in the corner. You stare into the dancing flame of the candle centerpiece, its shape distorted by the bulge in the glass container. The sight is soothing and distracts you from the hollow disappointment that has slowly grown in your stomach since the start of the ceremony.

A disappointment that had you eyeing entryways and scanning over heads to find a particular mess of black curls. Now, you're resigned to eating your slice of coconut cake in familiar solitude while trying to dislodge the troublesome ache in your chest. Two people have just spoken vows of lifelong love and devotion. You should be happy. It is a sign that there is a chance for shared joy in this world. You just have to wait your turn.

"Fancy meeting you here."

Your eyes close in a slow blink. That voice. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You look up from patterned pastel tablecloths to see a long, feminine frame wrapped in black silk. The dress compliments her slender curves, even as the matching bolero jacket conceals her arms and upper torso. There is no logical explanation for the way your chilled skin suddenly feels warm.

She's smiling at you, and you wonder how you forgot the way her face transforms with the expression. Texts don't quite translate the same affection, the same sense of attentive focus, no matter how thoughtful.

"I _do_ recall saying I'd make it," you greet with a smile, and find yourself rising to your feet. Your familiarity with heels makes the movement a smooth one.

Jane rolls her shoulders and tilts her head side to side, her curls swaying with the movement. "I'll admit I had my doubts." The twitch of her lips gives away the tease.

Your hand rises of its own accord, and she takes it, squeezing briefly. Her fingers are cold, and you hold on for a bit longer. It's not a handshake so much as a connection, an acknowledgment. A gesture of greeting suitable for those occupying that murky space between handshakes and hugs.

"Says the woman who only just now shows up." There's a question in your tone. Jane hears it.

"Ran late." She shakes her head with a sheepish look. It briefly strengthens the small cleft in her chin. "Had to take a seat in the back just as the flower girls started down the aisle."

"That explains the cold draft during the middle of the first movement of Wagner's Bridal Chorus."

Rather than noting your eerie aural-tactile memory, she steps back and her eyes dip down and return to your face. "You're beautiful," she says, and the smile she gives is sincere.

Her smile is one you still haven't grown accustomed to, if the small spike of adrenaline that spreads in growing waves is any judge. It is like the first warmth of the sun's rays on a chilly autumn morning—and the added hint of familiarity, as though this particular smile is for you and you alone… _Well_.

"So are you," you say, and mean it. You don't know why you didn't expect her to wear a dress. It suits her.

When you sit, she scoots her chair closer to yours, and your knees brush once beneath the table as you both settle.

"What kept you, if you don't mind my asking?"

She leans back in her chair with a sigh, drumming two fingers against the table in quick succession. "Work." She looks as though she will leave it at that, but at your raised eyebrow and continued silence, she seems to realize she doesn't have to gloss over unsavory details with you.

"Tracked down a perp. I had to interrogate while the iron was still hot. Triple homicide."

Her body remains animated as she talks, a part of her constantly moving. It is as though she moves to a beat only she can hear. But her expression belies any unease. Rather, she is vigilant. Attuned to her surroundings.

You remember the last time you saw her, the purple stains of fresh bruises blossoming with spreads too wide for comfort. You glance at her forearm, covered by black satin, and recall the feel of knitting broken skin whole.

"Any easier than the last apprehension?" you prompt.

She winces, shifts, and you notice the way she favors her left side, the careful placement of her arm. "Let's just say I might be sore for a few days."

You make a sympathetic sound, and hope she doesn't take it the wrong way.

"What about you?" she says, nodding her chin in your direction. "Still doing doubles?"

"Thankfully, no," you say with a laugh and settle back into your chair. "They found a replacement for the rest of Dr. Hubert's shifts. I can go back to my usual schedule."

Conversation flows easily from there, and it is only later, as you're describing the complexity of a knee replacement procedure, that you realize this exchange lacks the usual bumpy starts and pauses of other interactions. It lacks the rapid racing of your thoughts to match a nervous heartbeat. Because you aren't _trying_. With Jane, you don't have to. It just is. The realization makes you pause, and you wonder if maybe this is how it's supposed to be, and you've been missing out all this time.

"You okay?"

Your focus shifts and you see Jane tilting her head, expression bordering on concern. You smile, and don't miss how the lines at the corners of her eyes soften at the same time.

"Yes." You have never meant that more than in this moment.

She seems to sense the truth in your words and is satisfied with your answer, turning her attention to the surrounding crowd. Her fingers tap a rhythm against the tablecloth once more, and you watch her focus sharpen the same way her expression does. Calculating.

"Strategic location," she comments.

You blink and shift your gaze outwards before she can notice your staring. "Oh, if you'd like to sit more towards everyone else, we can."

Jane waves a hand. "Nah. It's where I'd pick honestly." She gestures as she speaks. "Back to a wall, near a corner, the crowd distant yet within sight, exits visible. No one can surprise you." She gives you a look, half-playful. "You sure you didn't go through training?"

This makes you chuckle. "I just like being away from the excitement." You point a thumb at your chest. "Observer, through and through."

She hums and leans forward, resting her weight on her elbows. Her voice lowers, just enough to match the spark of mischief in her eyes. "What happens when the observer becomes the observed?"

You don't shy away from the innuendo or the eye contact. "I suppose that depends upon who's doing the observing."

You smile at each other, and the glint of humor and mild suggestion in brown eyes has your blood singing in your veins. It's a pleasant hum, low and steady with promise.

"Jane!" You both turn to see a man across the room, half-standing from a chair and beckoning with a grin. His dark skin contrasts with his grey suit and green tie, and the even darker beard that softens the line of his jaw.

Jane's answering smile is luminous, warm and open in a way that makes you stare.

She half-rises, turning to you. "If you'll excuse me?"

"Of course." As she starts away, you add, "Don't let me monopolize your time."

She stops by your chair, apparently recognizing the echo of her own words, and she bends down, hand on your shoulder, to say,

"That could never happen." Her eyes catch yours briefly as you turn your head, the proximity sudden but not unwelcome. She holds the contact for a moment, gently, as though to emphasize her words, and it sends a small pulse down your spine. Then she is gone.

…

Stacy finds you after the first dance between husband and wife. You're sipping your champagne and trying to be discrete in keeping tabs on the dark head of curls on the other side of the room. She appears at your side with an enthusiastic _hey!_ and you struggle to swallow your bubbly sip without spewing it over her frilly thousand-dollar dress.

"Stacy," you manage after a swallow and only minimal sputtering. A hand goes to your chest as you blink the resultant tears from your eyes. "Beautiful wedding."

"It is, isn't it?" Her smile is that soft sort of radiant that you've always associated with love from the movies and you repress the small swell of envy in your breast. She glances around, and then her eyes land on you again. "The company is, too," she adds with a smile now entirely too knowing.

You frown. "What?"

She sits in Jane's vacated chair amid a whoosh of rustling and shifting fabric. The white dress poofs comically from her lap, but Stacy just settles her hands upon it, eyes never leaving you. "I've seen you over here with Jane. And if I recall, you two were rather chummy at the bachelorette party as well."

You flush. If you couldn't feel the heat invade your neck and face, Stacy's widening smile would be indication enough. She never was one to beat around the bush.

"I already know you're bi, Maura. There's no reason to be embarrassed." This only makes it worse. Stacy continues like your face is not three shades shy of a tomato. "I know we're not terribly close, but you're one of the few doctors I work with who means what she says, and who I know would never smile while stabbing someone in the back."

You grimace at the imagery and start to speak, but Stacy holds up a hand, stalling your tongue. "So Harold and I had a thought."

"A thought?" Trepidation curls in your gut. This doesn't bode well.

"A thought," she repeats with a nod. Her smile has yet to diminish, and you marvel once again at how light she looks. She produces an envelope from somewhere on her person, and you wonder if she actually had pockets sewn into her dress. She holds it out to you.

You hesitate before gingerly accepting the envelope, holding it like you're unsure if it contains anthrax or not. Stacy sits back, hands folded in her lap, and raises her eyebrows expectantly. You open the tucked-in flap and discover two plane tickets.

"Consider it an investment," Stacy says as you struggle to comprehend. "Paying it forward."

You notice the destination and correct yourself. Two very _expensive_ plane tickets.

"Stacy." You catch her eye and put the tickets back, holding out the envelope. "I can't accept this."

She doesn't move to take it. "In our line of work, you learn to appreciate what we've been given." There is a softer edge to her voice, and you know she's not talking about plane tickets at all, but about something much more precious.

You run a hand along your forehead. "I've known her just over a week. This is…"

"Splendid?"

" _Excessive_." You emphasize it, hoping she'll realize there are reasons for the jokes about moving too fast in relationships.

"Well it's not for another few weeks. Harold and I traveled to Cancun before we knew each other a month. Look at us now."

"Stacy…" you sigh, shoulders drooping.

She shrugs, dress rustling with the delicate movement. "So use it for yourself. Or a friend. I don't care. They're yours now." Her eyes flick over your shoulder and her smile twists when they return to you. "Do with them what you will." She lilts the last word, like she's trying to tell you something.

"What did I miss?" You'd recognize that low voice anywhere.

"Jane!" Startled, you say it with more enthusiasm than you mean, and Jane gives you a half-confused smile, brow wrinkled.

"I'll leave you to it." Rising, Stacy turns her attention to Jane and gives her a nod. "Nice to see you again, Jane."

Jane nods in return. "Likewise. Nice ceremony."

As Stacy hovers, the air tight with possibilities, there is a brief moment where panic brings your heart into your throat and you imagine all the things she might say, all the things she might _do_. The envelope crinkles in your tight grip, but Stacy only gives you a wink and saunters into the crowd. You let out a shuddery exhale and try to get your heart rate under control.

Jane retakes her seat and the relief flooding your system makes you lightheaded. "Thank you," you blurt, emphatic.

Jane chuckles. "Not that I don't like receiving thanks, but what for?"

"For rescuing me."

Jane eyes Stacy's retreating figure and sips champagne, rolling the glass stem between two fingers. "I have a feeling you're more than capable of handling yourself."

The words, and the genuine sentiment behind them, catch you off guard. "That is not untrue," you acknowledge, relishing the thrum that rushes through your veins. You run a finger along the edge of the envelope and feel the need to explain. "Stacy has taken a sudden interest in my love life for some reason. Or lack thereof."

Jane studies your face and appears to choose her words carefully. "Well, you find love and you want others to have it too." She rolls her shoulders. "Makes sense."

"Speaking from experience?"

You didn't mean that to sound as suggestive as it did.

Jane merely smiles, but doesn't take the bait. Instead, her gaze remains steady, expression soft. "Is it something _you're_ worried about?"

You have to search for the right answer. "Not at the moment, no."

Jane smiles. "Then don't let her get to you."

She makes it sound so simple. You wonder if it is. Shushing your thumb across the envelope one last time, you tuck it into your purse and refasten the metal clasp into place with a decisive _click_. Jane watches but doesn't pry, perhaps sensing its relation to the previous sensitive topic.

"Care for a walk?" she asks instead.

The allure of scented gardens and winding paths, combined with the atmosphere of gaiety, is irresistible.

You stroll side by side and enjoy the color and variety that abounds, marvel at the vegetation that manages to flourish even in the chill of oncoming winter. It makes you think of Jane. Jane and her long stride, the brush of her arm by your side, the steady force of her presence.

You turn and notice her eyes settled on your throat, tracing the slant of your exposed collarbone. Perhaps she notices the surprised tensing of your body, the way you stop breathing, because her eyes dart to yours then away.

"It's, ah, getting chilly out," she comments, with a nervous bob of her throat. Her hands smooth the dress at her hips and you suspect if she had pockets, they would be filled with nervous fingers by now.

You clasp your hands around your elbows, and at mention of the temperature, a shiver raises goosebumps along your arms. Jane notices and shrugs from her jacket.

"Here." She holds it out. An offer of warmth, nothing more, nothing less. Slipping on the garment, you thank her and tug the fabric closed in front. A whiff of lavender reaches your nose, and it is better than any garden or floral arrangement.

She doesn't push, and you appreciate her consideration. The way she seems to follow the dance of your choosing, falling into step without trying to lead or be led. It's more a merging of two dances into one, and both of yours are compatible.

You smile.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Her voice tugs you from your introspection and you look up.

The purples and red-blues do offer a stunning sight. But something about the chilly air and encroaching darkness, bleeding into the edges of the sky like an inky brush dipped into water—it makes you pull the jacket tighter.

"I prefer sunrises."

You feel the weight of her gaze and meet considering eyes. She thinks about your words, you realize. She listens.

You watch her roll the words through her mind and wonder what she makes of them.

"They look the same to me," she confesses, clasping a hand around her wrist. The gesture seems diffident.

You tilt your head, conceding her opinion. "I suppose it's more about how they make me feel."

"Beginnings rather than endings?"

Her intuition surprises you.

A small quirk of your lips. "Perhaps."

You walk on in silence, and it's comforting how comfortable you are in her presence, no need to fill the space with words.

A loud smack startles you.

"Sorry," she says. She darts again, hands waving, and you know you hear a curse between slaps of hand against skin. "Mosquitoes." The word is almost a growl.

Your heart works to still its rapid pace and you chuckle as the adrenaline fades. "Dusk does tend to lure them out."

Another slap, this one to her forearm.

"Got ya, 'lil sucker," she mutters, raising her palm. "Didn't know what hit him."

Something _pings_ in your mind, an excitement that can't be contained. "The 'suckers,' as you so term them, are all female. The males of the species are vegetarians, only drinking nectar for sugar. The females need blood for protein when they produce eggs."

Jane holds out her hand, examining the palm in which you presume rests the corpse of said _sucker_. "So I just killed a pregnant bug?"

"It would seem so, yes."

She meets your eyes and you both laugh at the absurdity. "I always get eaten up," she admits and shoots you a glance. "They don't bother you?"

You shrug, trying to stifle a smile at another loud smack that echoes into the silence. "My blood's not sweet enough, I suppose."

She doesn't appear to know how to respond to the compliment, ducking her head and letting her curls partially conceal her face.

"Do you have type O blood?" This is not how you pictured the evening going, discussing blood types in the growing dusk of an autumn night while fending off flying insects.

Her head snaps up, surprised. "O negative, yeah. How'd you know?"

"A universal donor," you murmur before shaking your head. "That's the type they prefer. One's blood type affects the types of polysaccharides on the skin, and studies have shown mosquitoes are more attracted to those with O. There are other factors, of course," you continue at Jane's increasingly disturbed expression. "For instance, those who have drunk beer are also preferred over those sober."

Jane huffs out a half-laugh.

"What?"

"I drink beer," she says, and then stops and turns to you. "Wait, shouldn't they be dead by now?"

You pause as well. "It depends on the species. Some hibernate through winter, but the majority lay eggs and perish at the first frost."

"Mmm." She stuffs her hands in her non-existent pockets and rocks on her heels, a slow back and forth motion. The atmosphere shifts as you gaze at her, sinking forward into a moment more present, aware of standing _here,_ with her, and you sense the change in focus the same way air chills with the fall of the sun's warmth.

"Did you want to be an entomologist when you were little?" Amusement tints her voice.

"I've always—" You falter, realizing how you must sound, how strange. How…odd. You take a mental step back. "I have a healthy respect and curiosity for the world. There is so much that we know, and so much more that we do not. I find it fascinating, the search for knowledge, discovery, realizing the small miracles that surround us every day…" You trail off as Jane draws closer.

"I didn't mean anything by it." She takes your hands in hers, the gesture soothing and intimate. It halts your retreat, both mental and physical, and you blink a few times to reorient. "I think it's…" she hesitates, and you feel that hesitation acutely before her face sets with her decision and she steps closer still "…wonderful."

You suspect she's referring to more than just your interest in insect reproductive cycles. The contrast of her low voice against the surrounding silence edges into your awareness, as does the way she's standing, holding your hands, as though asking you a question.

You don't have to think hard for an answer.

Stepping into her space, you tilt your face up, watching caramel eyes shift from surprise to acceptance and pleasure. The press of your lips is soft, the graze of a butterfly's wings: there then gone. You hover, warm breath mingling with hers, beginning to second guess your assumption as the seconds tick by and Jane remains frozen, because what if you interpreted everything wrong and—

Warm lips silence your doubts and you are instead drowned in the sensation of Jane's body pressed against yours, the way a hand cups your face, gentle, maybe with a slight tremble, and curves around the slant of your jaw to the back of your neck. The kiss stays slow and soft, an exploration of skin against skin.

She breaks away, nose brushing against yours, and you grip her waist at the loss of contact, feel the heat of her skin through the thin fabric and it ignites something hot and molten in your stomach. Something that slides through your veins and sets your synapses on fire in a way that leaves you breathless. Breathless at this intimacy. And you realize how much you want this.

Pressing against her lower back, you pull her forward once more and change the angle of the kiss, deepening the connection even as it stays slow and gentle. So so gentle. The hitch of Jane's breath stutters along your cheek, and you think _fragile_. You think _perfect_. You think—

Jane pulls you closer and you forget how to think. You only know how to feel the pound of your heart and the rush of your blood and the wonder that is this moment.

"Maura," she murmurs.

You smile and draw away, a kind of giddy euphoria suffusing your limbs, making them heavy and weighted yet also light.

Clearly your faculties are disrupted. Otherwise you would ponder that paradox further.

You feel Jane's answering smile against your cheek as she pulls you into an embrace, dark curls tickling your eyelashes. You close your eyes and revel, because you feel sunrises in her touch and safety in her arms and it awakens things you've never felt before.

 _Grateful_. You are so so grateful.

A chuckle escapes and Jane moves to see your face, her confused eyes deep and dark and brown. _Lovely_.

"What?"

"Your hands are cold."

That's not what you meant to say.

But Jane grins, relaxing. "Well, you are wearing my jacket." The tease in her voice, now low with a husky edge, sends a shiver along your skin.

You glance at the sky, now a light mauve fading into the dark of night.

"You've changed my mind," you say, leaning in close enough that she goes out of focus.

"How's that?" You're not the only one breathless.

A soft touch of lips, barely a kiss. Another smile. "Maybe sunsets aren't so bad."

Her laughter is a beautiful sound.


End file.
